Two of Swords
by Orangeblossom Took1
Summary: Teenage Faramir falls ill and gets a frightening lesson in swordplay from his father.
1. Two of Swords

Two of Swords Minas Tirith, summer 2999  
  
It was a bright summer morning when Faramir woke up with the flushed complexion and warm forehead of a fever. His stomach felt like he had swallowed frozen rocks. The sixteen-year-old had seldom been sick in his life and this was the worst he could remember feeling.  
  
Despite this, the sight of the sunlight pouring in his bedroom window filled him with dread. His father expected him to be up and at the practice field with his arms master before the sun had risen fully over the eastern horizon. He knew he would pay for his tardiness. He was usually scrupulously punctual and knew this was not a good time to anger his father, who had been acting strangely and spending a great deal of time in a locked room in the tower.  
  
He managed to get dressed quickly, although the effort made him slightly dizzy and did nothing to ease the turmoil in his stomach. He got his sword and walked swiftly to the practice field. Master Charis was there waiting for him and contentedly humming a tune as he polished his sword.  
  
He looked up when Faramir approached and, in a teasing tone, said, "You are late, lad. Were you up all night chasing girls with Lord Boromir?"  
  
Faramir smiled weakly and said, "No, Master Charis. Boromir spent the evening meeting with father and his councilors. I went to bed shortly after dinner and am afraid I simply overslept."  
  
Charis looked at his pupil with an assessing eye and concern deepened the lines on his friendly but weathered face. "Overslept, nothing," he said, "Your color is not good, young lord, and you are carrying yourself stiffly. Come here."  
  
Faramir obeyed this directive and allowed Charis to put a hand on his forehead. The arms master exclaimed, "You are burning up! You should go back to bed and I will send for a healer."  
  
Before Charis could do this, they were interrupted by the sight of Denethor approaching them. His long cloak billowed about him like the wings of a blackbird and the scowl on his fact could have darkened the brightest day.  
  
In a voice tight with barely suppressed rage, the Steward said, "You may leave, Charis."  
  
Surprised and alarmed by the look on Denethor's face, Charis forgot himself and said, "But, my Lord..."  
  
Denethor roared, "You dare to contradict me! You will speak only to answer a question from me! Now, give me your sword and leave! I will teach this lesson."  
  
Faramir watched Charis leave with some consternation but did his best to keep his expression neutral and his posture straight. He had never seen his father this angry since he was a child and his mother was dying. He had been sent to foster in Dol Amoth immediately after her death and had been back in Minas Tirith for less than a year. His relationship with his father had been frigid but Denethor had not been physically violent to him since his return.  
  
"Ready your sword, boy," Denethor ordered, pointing at the rack of practice swords.  
  
Faramir dutifully unsheathed the weapon. He could never understand what it was about him that his father hated so much. He could, with difficulty, recall a time in his earliest memories, before his mother died, when it had been different. He had been a tiny child, what could he have possibly done?  
  
The Steward snapped, "Be on your guard, boy!"  
  
Denethor was aggressively on the offensive. Faramir, with great effort, blocked his father's blade. This became progressively more difficult and Denethor fought with words as cold and sharp as the steel he wielded.  
  
Denethor sneered, "Faramir, you are weak and disobedient! I shudder to think that, if anything happens to Boromir, you will be Steward." Faramir did not say anything in response to this and Denethor continued, "Finduilas indulged you far too much and then sent you to that pompous brother of hers who continued to coddle you."  
  
The heat of the sun, his churning stomach, the physical exertion, and his father's words were taking their toll on Faramir and he was having more difficulty in keeping Denethor at bay. The summer sky whirled above his head in a spiral of infinite blue. He failed to check his father's next attack and received a deep slash to his arm. The blue turned black at the edges and tunneled in as he dropped to the ground. The last thing he heard was someone shouting, "Father! No!" Had Charis summoned Boromir to his aid?  
  
TBC 


	2. Queen of Cups

Two of Swords II: Queen of Cups

Minas Tirith, summer 2999

It was a long time before Faramir became fully conscious. There was an eternity of drifting, being consumed with a fever so hot it felt like bathing in flames. He did not feel the wound on his arm but he though he felt his mother calling his name, he could even smell the scent of roses and mint baked in sunshine she always had after tending her summer garden.

"Mother," he called weakly, "is that you?"

A soft, female voice answered, "Shhh...sleep now, my love."

He could feel her put her hand on his forehead and he sunk into the sort of sleep that has no dreams or nightmares, just velvety blackness. If he had any visions during this time, he did not remember them when he regained consciousness. There were times when he was semi-aware and he could remember being given juice to drink and damp cloths being placed on his feverish brow. Sometimes it seemed as if he was a child and it was his mother who tended him.

The first face he saw upon awakening almost confirmed this feeling and made him feel as if he was still in a dream. It was the face of a beautiful, golden-haired woman.

"Mother," he asked in a hoarse voice, "am I dreaming?"

"No, sweetheart," she answered, "you have finally returned to us and I am not your mother but your aunt Ivriniel."

Faramir saw that it was indeed his aunt for the woman he saw had attained a much greater age than had been allotted to his mother. He knew there had been some rivalry between the sisters over his father but the care she had lavished upon him during his childhood in Dol Amroth and the sadness in her voice when she mentioned Finduilas were proof that Ivriniel had loved her younger sister deeply enough that the distance of eleven years could not diminish the sorrow of her loss.

He thought of something and, in a stronger voice said, "Aunt! What are you doing in Minas Tirith?"

"To care for you, silly boy," she replied, "You have been very ill for just over two weeks. Even the skills of the most able healers, and surely Master Finlay counts as one of these, are not sufficient for the recovery of body and mind. The love only close family or the rarest of friends can give you makes that possible, Fari. You father can not provide that."

Her voice was cold and her eyes were dangerously narrow when she spoke of Denethor. Her youthful infatuation with the Steward had long given way to barely contained hatred because of his treatment of Faramir.

Hoping to lighten her mood, Faramir asked, "Is Cuilinn here?"

She smiled at the mention of her husband's name and responded, "Yes, he is. I told him sending you back into Denethor's clutches was foolish. I advised Imrahil of this as well. He feels quite guilty about it now, the dear man."

Faramir sighed and said, "Aunt, it was the fever, not the scratch on my arm, which has had me in bed for two weeks and the fever started the night before I received this wound."

"That does not excuse his actions, Fari, and I would call that more than a scratch, even if it is hardly a dangerous injury," she snapped.

She would have said more but Catriona, Master Finlay's little niece came in looking nervous. She was still a child but was able to assist her uncle in numerous small ways. She was usually hard to rattle, especially for such a young maid. She whispered her message to Ivriniel and quickly left the room with the Princess of Dol Amroth following her with a determined stride.

The mystery of what had caused his aunt to leave the room became clear when Faramir heard raised voices coming from the adjoining hallway. Faramir had hoped that he would see Boromir but Boromir was not the one arguing with their aunt in the hallway.

"Woman," roared an angry male voice, "how dare you interfere with me in my own city! If you were not a Princess of Dol Amroth, I would have you whipped and imprisoned for such impudence! "

"And, Lord Steward," said Ivriniel, in a voice dripping with cold fury and an emphasis on the word steward, "if you were not who you were, Imrahil would not let someone who hurt his nephew as you did to go unpunished."

"You are a fine one to issue threats," sneered the Steward, "and are nothing but the wife of a bastard!"

The sound of Ivriniel slapping Denethor was clearly audible to Faramir. He knew his aunt's temper and was not at all surprised that she had answered that insult with violence. He felt greater anger at his father for that slight to his aunt and her husband than he did for the slash on his arm.

"For that," said Denethor in a low, dangerous voice Faramir could barely hear, "I would kill a man."

"I am not a man, Steward," replied Ivriniel, "and, remember, Cuilinn is your brother as well as my husband."

"Half-brother," muttered the Steward.

Faramir sighed and shouted, "Enough! Let him come in, aunt."

The Steward and the Princess entered the room. To Faramir's satisfaction, they both looked somewhat abashed.

"Faramir, I do not want to leave you alone with him," she replied.

In a firm voice, Faramir said, "It is my wish, aunt. Please go find Boromir for me. Tell him I am awake and wish to see him."

He sat up straighter in his bed, turned toward Denethor, and asked, "What would you say to me, my Lord?"


	3. The Hanged Man

Two of Swords III: The Hanged Man

Minas Tirith, Summer 2999

Faramir could feel something cool and harden within him as he looked his father. He was sixteen now and, by the reckoning of many, was a good age to accept adult responsibilities. Denethor was Steward and, as his son, it was Faramir's duty to be his most loyal servant. The personal cost did not matter and emotions were to be sublimated. He had known since he was a child that he could expect no quarter.

He told his Aunt Ivriniel once that Denethor had made him watch executions. This had started not long before his mother's death and his fostering to foster in Dol Amroth but he still shuddered at the sharpness of the memory. The man had been a common solider who had done something horrible to one of the scullery maids. Faramir had even seen the victim on several occasions. She was a sweet, pink-cheeked thing who always smiled at him when he wandered into the kitchen looking for a treat. Denenthor did not give him the details of what the man had done but did not spare Faramir the sight of his death. As one of low birth, the man faced a noose rather than an axe. Denenthor would not let him turn away and made sure he saw every agonized jerk the doomed man made. When Faramir, who was four, began to cry, Denenthor had been unusually patient and explained that punishing wrong-doers was one of the duties of the Steward and, as the Steward's son, he must learn it. Boromir, who had been nine, remained dry-eyed but put an arm around Faramir's shoulder.

Faramir thought that this incident was typical of Denenthor. He was harsh but usually fair. What the man had done had been worthy of the ultimate punishment and using it as an educational opportunity for his sons showed the Steward's concern with making sure they could eventually lead as he did and his lack of regard of their feelings.

"He is fair, except with me," Faramir muttered under his breath.

He was brought back to the present when Denenthor grumbled, "Don't mumble, boy!"

Faramir shook his head to clear it and replied, "I am sorry, my lord. My head is not as clear as it could be."

The boy was surprised at the note of concern in the Steward's voice when he said, "Of course. Fever will do that. Well, both Mithrandir and the rangers will just have to wait until you have recovered completely."

Faramir gave a little start of surprise. Was Mithrandir here and what was this about the rangers? Denethor addressed these questions before Faramir had time to voice them.

"Yes, that bothersome wizard is here and needs some help in the library. He is eager to see you but will have to wait until your brother has had his visit," said the Steward.

"And the rangers," asked Faramir, "am I to join the rangers?"

Denethor nodded and answered, "Yes. Do not think that I was unaware of your education and activities while you where in Dol Amroth. The eyes of the White Tower see all. You will never make a Knight as your brother has. You are an able but reluctant swordsman. Your skill is with the bow and you are adverse to violence. Even had you been well, I doubt you would have found the stomach to truly go on the offensive during our swordplay. If you had, you would not have been injured. You were not meant even for a ranger, really. You are a scholar, Faramir. Were these better times, there would be no shame in that. Gondor needs warriors now, not intellectuals."

Faramir frowned. He had no idea his father had been watching him so closely. He said, "But, my lord..."

Denethor made a shushing motion with his hand that returned Faramir to silence then continued, "You have skill with a bow and a subtlety of mind. The rangers are the best place for you. Also, that will remove you from Minas Tirith. When I look at you, I see your mother and I clearly can not control myself around you so it is best you go. I can not afford to lose control. Finduilas was wise when she sent you to Dol Amroth, as much as I resented that. She always gave you and Boromir a higher priority than she did me. That did not anger me with Boromir but, for some reason, it did with you. Perhaps it is because you are more like me than your brother is. You have the old blood but that is not what Gondor needs now."

Faramir lowered his head respectfully and said, "I will do whatever you command, my lord."

"You have no other choice, boy," scoffed Denethor, "as soon as Mithrandir finishes his business here, you will go to the rangers. Assuming you prove yourself capable there, you will be their Captain one day."

There was a knock on the door and Boromir entered. Faramir was delighted to see his brother and felt a little of the new coldness within him melt.

Denethor said, "Boromir, when you leave, find the Wizard and tell him he may visit Faramir. Faramir, follow all Master Finlay's instructions and you should heal quickly."

After the Steward left, the brothers embraced and Faramir told Boromir what their Father had said. They would see less of each other once Faramir left for Ithilien.

"I am sure you will be a fine ranger, little brother," said Boromir, "but I will miss you."

"I will miss you too, Boromir," came Faramir's fervent reply. However, he did feel some anticipation at the idea of using maps and bows and going to Ithilien. This confirmed the wisdom of Denenthor's decision.


	4. The Magician

Two of Swords IV: The Magician

Minas Tirith, Summer 2999

It was not long before Faramir grew restive being confined to his bed. He received frequent visits from his Aunt Ivirinel and Uncle Cuillin as well as from Boromir but he was anxious to resume his studies in the library before he went to Ithilien to join the Rangers. He always loved the outdoors and had some pride inn his skill at archery but he would miss his books. It would be worth it if he could prove his value to his father and to use what he had learned about using maps and moving silent and unseen through the forest, most of which he had be taught in Dol Amroth before returning to Minas Tirith.

Cuilinn and Ivriniel insisted on staying until Mithrandir thought Faramir was well enough to assist him in the library. Faramir was somewhat embarrassed about their concern and felt they were coddling him. Still, he was grateful for their company and kindness. They talked to him cheerfully about Dol Amroth and his young cousins there. After having three fine boys, his Uncle Imrahil and his wife Indis had a girl, who they named Lothìriel. Elphir, Erchirion and Amrothos were all excited about the new arrival and Faramir knew they would be good older brothers to the baby.

He saw a momentary sadness in Ivriniel's eyes and felt ashamed for not realizing how this must cause her pain. She and Cuilinn had married late, especially on Ivriniel's part. She had been forty-three and that was just over a decade ago. Thus, she would never have her own children.

Before he could say anything, she patted his arm and said, "Do not look at me like that, Fari. I know what you are thinking and it does not make me sad or regretful any more. I was quite bitter before you and Cuilinn came to Dol Amroth. Elbereth knows your father and Lord Gouge gave me cause for it but now I have a husband and many wonderful nephews. Especially you, Fari. Never doubt that you are as much my son as if I had born you myself. What hurts me now is that you are growing beyond my ability to protect you."

"You have always been the best mother I could wish for and do not worry, I think that the Rangers will be a good place for me."

She pursed her lips and said, "I hope you are right."

Her husband grinned and said, "Of course he is right, my love. I taught him archery myself, remember?" He turned to Faramir and said, "You are the best I have seen with a bow, Faramir. I do not imagine this has changed in the past year."

Faramir smiled gratefully and replied, "I have kept practicing, Uncle."

A tall rider in a grey cloak entered Faramir's room several days later. It was Mithrandir and Faramir the Wizard, after ascertaining that his pupil was sufficiently recovered from his wound and illness, put him to work lifting books and taking notes.

The wizard and the teenager were rifling through some old papers, trying to find something Mithrandir was researching, and were about to give up in frustration until Faramir had an idea.

"We should try looking up Elven-king instead of Gil-Galad. Master Alim may have inadvertently placed it under the broader term."

After some struggle, they found the document they were looking for, only to discover that it only mentioned the long departed King of the Elves only once, in passing. They laughed about this and were unaware of the black-cloaked figure scowling at them from a nearby pool of shadow.


	5. King of Pentacles

King of Pentacles

Minis Tirith, Summer 2999

Denethor watched his younger son and that infernal wizard from the shadows as they cavorted in his library. It was his library and that dratted charm-peddler was in having a more cordial exchange with Faramir than he ever had. Irrational jealousy trickled though the Steward like a cold poison, hardening his heart further against his second child and his tutor. A small part of his mind told him he was being a fool and the distance between himself and Faramir was his own fault but that faint voice was no match for the overwhelming jealousy.

Faramir and Mithrandir were intent upon their studies and did not see the black-haired, black-cloaked figure that glared at them from the shadows and continued their research in a relaxed, convivial manner. Denethor wrapped his cloak more tightly about him and decided to climb the stairs to the room in the tower where his most valuable tool awaited him.

The sun had begun to set and the light was dim so Denethor required a candle to navigate the stairwells and, if a servant had been unlucky or bold enough to venture into those high corridors, the only to them would have been the flickering candle flame and the Steward's grim white face.

Denethor entered his secret chamber and went directly to a small table draped in black silk. He pulled the covering off in a swift movement and a dark, round, and highly-polished stone was revealed. It was dark and swirling, like a storm in the night sky. It made Denethor nervous the first time he dared to use it but now he was used to it. He guarded it closely and, aside from Boromir, it was his only joy. If the wizard knew he would take it away from him. He could not allow that. A lord must know everything that occurred in his domains and could not be blinded. Through the palantinir, he could tell who was loyal and who was not. It also allowed him to check on his sons.

The Steward looked into the stone and wondered if it would show him the fate of his youngest who, at the age of sixteen, he was sending away with the Rangers, come spring. He hardly knew the boy, between his years of fostering with that pompous Imrahil in Dol Amroth and, now, he would be departing again.

Denethor knew both times were his own fault. Both times were necessary both for his own sanity and the boy's safety. What was it about Faramir that drove him to violence? Yes, he thought the boy weak at a time when strength was needed but Boromir was a fine leader and strong. It did not matter. Faramir still had to have the stomach to govern and fight if Boromir should fall in battle and, of that, there was no hope.

"No, no hope," whispered one soft voice, purring in his head.

"If he lives, he will betray you. He is weak," rasped a harsher voice.

The rising moon shone through the window and its pale light banished the voices. The rages had always come upon him since he was a child. He had always had trouble with his temper. The voices were new and troubling but, as yet, they could be dispelled by nothing more than a moonbeam. Had using the orb allowed something else to worm its way into his psyche?

He wondered how long he had been staring at the orb. Its swirls had not coalesced into anything. It was the conjurer's fault that he was not able to concentrate. He wished he dared to forbid him to enter the city.

He willed the stone to show him Faramir. The boy was sleeping and moonlight fell across his face, giving a luminescence to his pale skin and glinting off his shiny black hair. The delicacy of his features recalled Finduilas and Denethor remembered how beautiful his wife had been. To see that beauty echoed in the adolescent features of their son softened him, if only for a minute. No tears fell but his eyes shone.

A cloud crossed over the moon and the room and stone grew dark at once. A red light shimmered in its depths. That insistent voice purred, "He will betray you…"


	6. The Star

The Star

Minas Tirith, Summer 2999

Faramir woke in the night with the feeling that there were eyes upon him, intently prying into every part of his soul. He did not know how he would get back to sleep when he labored under such a feeling of scrutiny. Ever since his return to Minas Tirith he had felt the watching and judgment but never quite so strongly. The boy worried that he would become one of those babbling fools who saw enemies and conspiracies everywhere they looked, even when there were not there. Mithrandir told him that, most often, this was because there was something wrong with their blood or they had been born with a part of their mind not working. The good wizard also said that your mind could not be overthrown by the dark powers unless there was some weakness, some fracture that could be exploited.

Faramir had the guilty thought that this could apply to his father. He had not been blind to how Denethor seemed to trust no one or, at least, no one besides Boromir. The boy thought that this was only natural because he had always been of the opinion that his older brother was the most noble and trustworthy of men. However, he remembered that Imrahil told him that knowing how to delegate authority was an important part of leadership. With chagrin, the boy thought that it was not for him to question the Steward and he would put aside such disloyalty.

Realizing that sleep would not find him again, Faramir wrapped a blanket around himself and decided that he would go watch the stars and wait for dawn. He wandered to an east-facing balcony and looked at the stars. He wondered if his mother was somewhere beyond their light. Now that he contemplated taking up adult responsibilities with the Rangers and being further separated from Boromir and, of course, his family in Dol Amroth, he wanted to feel her arms around him more than ever.

Lost in contemplation of the stars, Faramir was insensible of the soft footsteps coming towards him and jumped when he felt a hand touch his shoulder. He turned to see a smirking Denethor.

The steward's lip curled and, in a satisfied voice, said, "Surprised you, didn't I boy? You should be in bed..."


	7. The Moon

Two of Swords 7: The Moon

Minis Tirith, Summer 2999

Denethor lips curled in a small smile of satisfaction when he saw the surprise on his son's face. He thought of how Fin had chosen this weakling over himself and Boromir. He heard that slithery voice in his mind and it did not even occur to the Steward that this was the first time the voice had come to him when he was not high in the tower with his seeing stone.

"He will betray you," the voice purred. That was its constant refrain.

He shook his head to clear it before he turned to Faramir and said, "Boy, did I ever tell you about the day you were born?"

Faramir surprised him by not quailing or stammering. The boy simply looked him in the eye and, in a clear voice, said that Denethor never mentioned that story to him.

In a falsely calm, conversational tone, the Steward said, "You almost killed her you know. In fact you did. She never did regain her health. You came early. She insisted on riding out against my will and the advice of the healer. She said she wanted to see the first narcissus and snowdrops. The weather was strange that day and an unexpected storm blew up out of the north. A falling tree limb spooked that dapple-gray mare she was so fond of and she fell. She was near her time and the shock brought on your birth."

In a calm voice, Faramir replied, "I can hardly be blamed for that, my lord."

"Don't contradict me, boy. If nothing else, you were and are a poor repayment for the loss of her health," snarled the Steward.

"Mother didn't think so," said Faramir, in the same calm tone that maddened his father.

Denethor looked at his son staring at him in the moonlight and felt the rage start to heat his blood. The voice whispered to him of ungrateful, impudent children and traitors. He thought about wrapping his hands around the slender, adolescent neck of his son and squeezing until the insolence was crushed out of him. He moved toward the boy but was stopped by another voice; soft, commanding, and all-to-familiar.

"Steward," said Mithrandir in a deceptively mild voice, "I do think that both you and the boy should get some sleep before you wake the entire city and I do suggest that, the next time you try to creep around in the dark, you should be mindful that you can not equal a Wizard for stealth and I may be watching."

Denethor's face paled. He was too astonished to feel rage and the rosemary and mint scent of the wizard seemed to clear his mind of that other, purring voice.

"As you say, Wizard," he muttered, "but remember, you are suffered to be here by my hospitality."

Mithrandir pursed his lips and said, "Very well, Steward. I will trouble you no longer once you have sent Faramir to the Rangers."


	8. The Sun conclusion

Two of Swords 8: The Sun

Summer 2999 (Minas Tirith, The road to Ithilien, The Rangers Camp)

When summer had passed its peak and left the grass of the Pelenor dry and brown, as if to protest the end of the season, Faramir left for the Rangers. The Wizard, as promised, stayed on and his presence stirred the Steward to quicker action in the matter of the disposal of his younger son.

Faramir was sorry to be leaving Boromir and Mithrandir. He enjoyed helping the Wizard in the library. His research seemed to have something to do with some adventure with dwarves Mithrandir had gone on some time ago but the Wizard was parsimonious with details and Faramir was distracted with thoughts of the changes that would be occurring in his life so he did not probe as much as he might have done. In truth, the boy could see little connection between some of the books and papers he got for his old tutor.

It had been quiet since that nocturnal meeting with his father. There seemed to be a kind of cold truce between them. Now he would be leaving and his returns to Minas Tirith would be few and infrequent. It pained him to part in such a fashion with his father.

It was even harder that he had seen Boromir so little in the past weeks. His brother had to lead more and more skirmishes against Orcish incursions. He would miss his brother. Boromir had assumed adult responsibilities, such as leading the Knights, before Faramir's return from years of Fostering at Dol Amroth but, despite being apart for so much of their lives, the letters and visits with his brother meant everything to him. He hoped he would one day make his father proud and did not hate him but he loved Boromir.

As if conjured by his thoughts, the somber, black-robed figure of his father entered the room and said, "Well, boy, I see you are packed."

"Yes, my lord," replied Faramir, "I am. I did not require much."

The Steward nodded absently and said, "Good. You will be happy to know that, as your brother has an unusual lull in his duties and should see how the Rangers fare, I have told him to accompany you."

Faramir nearly laughed with joy but simply replied, "Thank you, my lord" and made a short, formal bow.

There was not exactly a smile on Denethor's face but Faramir thought there was, at least, a softening. What his father said next shocked him even more than the almost-smile.

"Boy," he said, "I do not think that you will completely disgrace me. At least you do not flinch. If there is anything I need to be appraised of regarding the Rangers, be sure to write me."

Faramir bowed his assent but dared not say anything for fear his voice would break. He vowed that he would make his father truly proud of him for the first time in his life.

Mithrandir came in immediately after Denethor's exit. Judging by the speed of the Wizard's entrance, Faramir guess that he must have been waiting by the door. What he said touched the boy deeply.

"Faramir," he said, "In all my long years, I count only you and one other to be as dear as sons to me. You may not see me for some years. Do not take my absence to be from a lack of care. You are sensitive to the fact that there is a growing darkness. You brother has been fighting it on the battlefield. I must fight it in other ways. There are hard years ahead but I know you have the strength to face them. May the blessing of the Valar go with you."

Faramir wondered who the other person Mithrandir counted as a son was and his talk of hard years made Faramir think of his dreams of burning, which made him shiver. Before he could think too much on these things, though, Boromir came in to collect him.

It was a very pleasant ride to Ithilien with Boromir. The weather continued to be dry and sunny. Although they were accompanied by a couple of Boromir's Knights, the brothers rode next to each other and talked the whole way.

When they approached the Ranger camp, three Rangers came up to them. One was somewhat older than Boromir and the other two were young, closer to Faramir's age.

"Take care of my little brother," Boromir called cheerfully.

Faramir sighed and groaned, "Boro…"

"Indulge me, Fari," he winked and said, "you are going into danger and adulthood here. I am feeling protective."

Faramir smiled and the brothers embraced and bade each other farewell. Faramir wondered when he would see Boromir again.

The older of the three Rangers came up to him. They shook hands and the weathered but kindly-looking man said, "Welcome, my lord. My name is Madril." He then gestured at his younger companions and said, "These are Damrod and Malbung. Now, my lord, I hear you know you way around a map and know how to shoot a bow quite well. These are useful skills. We will hone these and teach you more about the way of the woods."

There were smiles, handshakes, and much talk. Faramir thought he would be happy and valued here and that he could trust these men with his life.


End file.
